Sherlock's Sleeping Habits
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: In which John learns about Sherlock's sleeping habits. Series of unrelated oneshots featuring the one and only ADORABLE Sleepy!Lock! Fluff abounds.
1. Socks

**Sherlock's Sleeping Habits**

The first time that John learned one of Sherlock's idiosyncrasies for sleeping, it was because the detective had fallen asleep on their way home.

John yawned, leaning against the door of the cab heavily. They'd been working on a bloody case for the past week and Sherlock finally, _finally_ solved it today. They'd been running about since seven this morning, it was eight in the evening now, and John was bloody well exhausted.

Apparently, Sherlock was too, because he was currently slumped against the cab window, eyes closed and hair mussed. His breaths came in a steady pattern of slow, deep inhale and exhales and, if John wasn't so tired to really _care_, he would have totally thought it was funny that Sherlock fell asleep in the back of the cab. His face would probably stick to the window. John wondered if he was drooling.

But, no, John wasn't too terrible interested. He wanted to go home, go to bed, and sleep.

Unfortunately, a sleeping Sherlock meant a messy Sherlock for actually getting him up to bed because John highly doubted that Sherlock would just pop awake and run upstairs. Possible, but not probable.

John shook his shoulder slightly. "Sherlock... Sherlock, we're almost home. Sherlock?"

Sherlock mumbled something and started to move. His head slid away from the window and he snapped awake, blinking unseeingly. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it again, and John watched incredulously as the detective's chin dropped to his chest and he fell asleep sitting up.

John sighed and shook his shoulder again, more harshly. "Sherlock, wake up. You can go upstairs to bed in a few seconds here. Sherlock."

Sherlock moaned at the movement and sat up a little bit. His gaze trained on the window but John didn't know if he was looking to see where they were or if he was falling asleep again.

Nonetheless, John paid the fare while Sherlock fumbled with the cab door. By the time that John got the front door unlocked, Sherlock was swaying on his feet. He got as far as the stairs before he collapsed in a pile of long limbs and curled up.

"Sherlock," John started, but Sherlock cut him off.

"I'm gonna sleep here," he mumbled, tucking his tall form into an impossible small huddle.

For a moment, John almost told himself to hang it and just go to bed, but doctor's instincts died hard. He sighed and crouched next to Sherlock, grabbing his arm. "Go upstairs. To bed. It'll be so much more comfortable, Sherlock."

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible again, trying to pull away.

"_Upstairs_," John repeated, managing, with great effort, to haul Sherlock to his feet. "Come on. It's just a few stairs."

"Seventeen..." Sherlock muttered.

"Huh?"

Sherlock didn't respond and John shrugged slightly. Probably sleep-deprived Sherlock mutterings. Not an uncommon thing.

Clumsily (and by clumsy, that meant he was fairly sure he had a bruise forming by the end of it), John managed to help Sherlock into his bedroom. The detective ended up being little help, tripping over his own feet and drifting off, but, as soon as John let go of Sherlock, he thought that they had done all right.

Sherlock fell into bed immediately, forgoing taking off his coat, shoes, scarf, or gloves.

John sighed. He didn't know why he put up with this. Better yet, why did he encourage it? Because reaching for Sherlock's lapel and edging the heavy coat away from Sherlock's thin form was certainly encouraging it. But he couldn't let Sherlock sleep in a coat and shoes; it just went against his moral code to leave him like that.

So, painstakingly and tiredly, John carefully removed Sherlock's coat, his scarf, his jacket, his gloves, and his shoes, trying not to jostle the sleeping detective more than necessary.

"There," John muttered. "Good night." He drew the blanket up over Sherlock's body and sighed, preparing to leave the room.

Sherlock's voice stopped him. "Socks."

John glanced over his shoulder. "What?"

"I can't sleep in socks..." Sherlock mumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow.

John couldn't help the perplexed look that he gave to the detective's mop of hair. "You can't sleep in socks?"

Sherlock gave a muffled groan that John took to mean _no_.

"Why not?"

"M'feet stick to the blankets," Sherlock muttered.

John laughed out loud. "You're joking."

"John," Sherlock moaned, drawing out the syllables as he tried to kick the blankets away. "Can we not do this right now? 'm tired..."

"I really don't know why I encourage this behaviour," John muttered, shoving the blanket aside and grabbing one of Sherlock's feet. He wrenched one sock off, and then the other, and then draped the blanket back over Sherlock's legs. "There. Are you happy?"

Sherlock gave a tremendous yawn and stretched luxuriously, like a cat that had been pampered and was now content. He snuggled down further into the blankets and hugged his pillow close.

John took that as a _yes_ and turned for the door.

"Thank you, John..." Sherlock mumbled.

"Yeah, whatever... Take your own bloody socks off next time! Better yet, let's get home at a reasonable time so we're not bleeding exhausted."

When he didn't receive a reply, it was only then that John realised that Sherlock had fallen asleep again.

Sighing, he left the room, muttering about socks under his breath.

* * *

**You think I could do better than _socks_. But sleeping in socks is so annoying... Anyway, there will be several more unrelated oneshots about sleepy!lock. This is going to be another one of those stories that don't get updated regularly, but whenever the muse strikes. But, hey, it's like a hidden treasure trove. Sleepy!lock is the best. :)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	2. The One Without Clothes

Sherlock slept naked.

John knew this. He wished that he didn't.

Really, it had all started innocently enough. Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch after a long night out, apparently.

John had been out with Stamford the past three hours. He hadn't seen Sherlock for almost thirty-six hours- but he had sent him a text to say that he was alive a day ago, so John stopped worrying- but when he had returned from his night-out, Sherlock had been passed out on the sofa, a bit worse for the wear.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up. Come on... you smell," John said dryly.

Sherlock moaned and rolled over, or tried to. Being on the sofa didn't allow for much movement room and he ended up just edging further into the back of the couch.

"Sherlock, go have a shower and go to bed. And then I'm going to get you a once over in the morning," he added, noting the large discolouration of skin just peeking out from his shirt on his shoulder. "And you're going to tell me where you got that bruise."

Sherlock pried his eyes open, staring blearily towards the back of the couch. "... Joh...?"

John sighed. "Yes... Yes, I'm back. So are you, apparently. Go have a shower and go to bed."

Sherlock struggled to roll over. "How was..." he trailed off, eyelids fluttering closed.

"It was fine," John clarified, taking Sherlock's arm again. "Up you get."

Sherlock glanced up again and, after probably more trouble than it was worth, John managed to get the lethargic detective to the bathroom. He stopped up the bath and ran in the water, leaving Sherlock to manage the rest of it on his own.

When the water drained and Sherlock didn't resurface, John just assumed that Sherlock had gone back to his own bedroom and didn't bother to check on him.

However, by the time that John woke up at ten the next morning and Sherlock still wasn't to be found, his bedroom door still closed, John felt justified in going to check on him.

What he was found was Sherlock, but a very naked Sherlock.

He was sprawled out in bed, completely naked, face-down and cuddling his pillow. He hadn't bothered with the duvet or sheet, or, if he had, he had lost it in turning over in the middle of the night. His hair was a mess. He looked thinner than usual, and John accidentally noticed a freckle that Sherlock had on his upper backside.

John closed his eyes and counted to ten, letting out a deep breath. He strode across the room and grabbed the blanket, drawing it up to Sherlock's shoulders without once looking away from the wall.

After checking to make sure that the consulting detective was still alive and breathing, John turned and strode out.

Sometimes, no, scratch that, _most_ of the times, John wondered why he was constantly forced to be Sherlock's babysitter.

Although, a little voice reminded, you wouldn't be happy without him.

Really, that was the scariest thought of all.

* * *

**Because, given that Sherlock walks out of his bedroom in _A Scandal in Belgravia_ wearing nothing but a sheet, we can infer that he sleeps naked. :) Unless he was just randomly in bed without clothes on. Whatever. :p**


End file.
